


maybe if it left a mark

by bobtheacorn



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Accidental Self-Harm, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Existential Crisis, Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Lance And His Award Winning Motivational Speeches COME THROUGH, M/M, Pining Keith (Voltron), Post-Episode: s02e08 The Blade of Marmora, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-07 05:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12226809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobtheacorn/pseuds/bobtheacorn
Summary: "Should I… apologize?"Lance blinks, looks surprised. "Huh?""To… Allura…."  Keith's hands shake. "Or…"The Galra have taken so much from everyone.  Everyone on his team. Everyone in the galaxy.What if he's like that, too?//Keith is dealing with the consequences.





	1. sharp like glass

**Author's Note:**

> [Solo, by Oh Wonder](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G2TdNps6iI8)

Keith thinks he probably should have learned his lesson about being alone on the training deck after that one time the castle was possessed or haunted or whatever and sent a gladiator after him.  Hindsight is twenty-twenty, though, and Keith likes being alone more than he likes being with people - even people he considers family, or as close to family as he's had in a while - at least when something is on his mind and he's trying to work out how he feels about it.

Like being part Galra.

Like not knowing how to make his knife do the thing where it turns into a sword on command.

So he's practicing his combat skills, trying to think, trying to reach in deep for whatever he has inside that's worth anything.  He still doesn't have answers. He just has more questions than ever and it's hard to be okay with that. It's hard to accept that he might never know. It's hard to accept who and what he is when Allura won't even look at him anymore and he's got this well of guilt flooding his chest over something he has no control over.

He's losing his patience, and losing his focus.

The gladiator turns Keith's thrust aside.

Keith over reaches, and stumbles, and swings the knife down, instead.  It goes through Keith's leg like butter, only jarring to a stop once it sticks into bone.  He hits his knees hard on the training room floor, the air punching out of his lungs - one hand still gripping the hilt of the blade, the other scraping at the smooth floor, curling into a fist as his body bows inward, locking up against the pain.

Every muscle in his body is fighting not to scream.

"End… end training sequence…" he grits it out between his teeth.

The gladiator lowers it's weapon, raised for a finishing blow, and powers down. Keith gusts out a shuddering breath and doesn't move except to bang his fist against the floor. His leg throbs. The pain is heavy, constant, and every twitch or pull of muscle makes it more pronounced.

Slowly, Keith uncurls his fingers from around the hilt.

His brain is still trying to catch up with what happened. His knife is sticking out of his thigh.  Keith stares at it, panting, shaking, sweat beading down his face. He can't see the blood soaking his dark jeans but he can see it pooling bright red on the floor under his knee and feel it streaming around his thigh.  Every nerve is alight with fire. The muscles in his leg spasm, and the pain snags his breath.

Should have worn his armour. 

Should have told someone where he was going to be.

That's a lot of blood.

He has to get up.

Keith's hand jerks against the floor. He struggles to put his weight against it, to leverage himself upright.   Both hands on the floor. Not-injured leg first. Not-injured leg first. It takes him a minute to figure it out. He starts to rise, but accidently puts the wrong foot down. His leg buckles. Pain shoots up into his ribs, digging in deep. His hands jump out to break his fall.

Two quick hands grab him at the elbows and hoist him back up. His body doesn't hit the floor, but he feels like his head does. The room is spinning. The person he's pressed against is warm - or maybe he's just really hot. He feels like he's burning, his pulse racing. His leg is heavy, throbbing. It aches all the way up his side, down to his toes, and it feels like it pulls something out of his chest. Keith claws at his pants without realizing he does it.

"Don't -  _ don't!  _  Keith!!"

Two smaller hands grab his wrist. Someone else is still holding him up.

He has to take the knife out.

Maybe it will hurt less with the knife out.

Keith doesn't know when he got on the floor, but suddenly he's looking up at Lance and the light behind him, and he's dazed by it. The light. Or maybe Lance. The look on his face. How blue his eyes are. The way his mouth moves and no sound comes out.

Pidge bobs into view, livid, and smacks him hard across the face.

_ "Keith!!  _  Stay awake!!"

"Pidge, relax!"

"How am I going to relax, he hit an artery!!"

"It's gonna be okay." Lance's voice is steady.  His hands are steady. Keith turns his head, trying to drag his attention toward the voice. He can't move his leg. Lance has it pinned against the floor, both hands squeezing his thigh, leaning all his weight down. The knife is still sticking up between his arms.  Blood wells up dark between his fingers. "He does stupid stuff like this all the time, he's gonna be fine."

"This is not the same thing as shooting yourself out of the airlock or nose diving off a cliff,  _ why are you so calm!" _

"Because I know he's gonna be alright! Just go get Coran or a first aid kit, something I can make a tourniquet with!"

"I'll get Shiro - if nothing else he can cauterize it.  _ Don't  _ take the knife out!"

"I'm not an idiot!"

"And keep pressure on it!"

"I'm doing that!"

That light overhead keeps turning and fading. Keith watches it, dizzy. Lance is leaning over him again, taking up all his vision, voice snapping with some emotion,  _ "Keith, buddy, you gotta stay with me," _ and everything else is dark.

-x-

Keith somehow feels worse coming out of the cryopod than he did going in. He's kind of glad everyone else isn't crowded around it waiting on him. It would have just been overwhelming.  He's cold and disoriented, and he doesn't have any energy. His hands shake. Shiro pulls a thick blanket around his shoulders and sits him down on the step. Behind him, Allura is jabbing at the panel, saying something under her breath about  _ resources _ and  _ waste _ , and Keith is not so numb that he doesn't feel that creeping sense of shame returning.

Shiro's hands tighten slightly while he's bundling Keith up, but when he turns and thanks Allura and asks her to give them a few minutes, it's with an even tone.  Allura's tense stride carries her swiftly out of the room. Keith twists the blanket in his hands, burrows his face against his knees, and groans.

Shiro reaches in to take his knee in both hands, and Keith sits up enough to allow Shiro to straighten his leg out. They must have put him in in a hurry; he's been stripped down to his shorts instead of put in a cryosuit. There's no sign of the wound at all. Not even a scar. Just Shiro's thumbs making little dips in Keith's whole and healthy skin.

Once he's satisfied that Keith is in one piece, Shiro lets Keith pull his leg back under the blanket and sits beside him on the step.

"Well, whatever it was," Shiro says, "I think you made your point."

"That's not funny?"

"Lance told me to say it."

"Definitely not funny."

Keith shudders. It's mostly involuntary, and he pulls the blanket tighter. He feels too thin and washed out. He's starving.  He hates going in the pod because it always feels like this. He puts his face against his knees and tries to breathe some warmth back into his body, rubbing his arms.  Shiro reaches up to do the same thing across his back, wide circles up and down his spine that make breathing a lot easier. Keith wouldn't have asked him to; Shiro just does it.

"You'll feel better after another transfusion.  You lost a lot of blood back there." The cryopod does a great job of closing up wounds, but it can't replenish fluids.  Before Keith can ask Shiro adds, "Lance is donating."

Keith groans louder this time.

"Just be glad his blood type is compatible with everyone else's," Shiro tells him, smiling sympathetically, "You gonna make me ask?"

"It was an accident."

"Keith, I don't think you would have stabbed yourself in the leg on purpose."

"I don't know what happened." The more he uses his voice, the more aware he becomes of how tight his throat is. "I got distracted.  I slipped."

"That's a pretty big slip."

"Yeah, no kidding."

"Keith, you're lucky the others were watching from the observation deck," Shiro says.  His tone is more pressing than before. His hand is still now, resting on the curve of Keith's back.  It's the one the Galra took from him, and it's heavy. "I don't have to tell you how bad this could have been."

Keith digs his fingers into his arms.

"I know." This is so  _ frustrating. _ "I know, it was stupid."

"Just take it easy, alright?"

"Alright…."

-x-

Hunk makes the best soup, alien or otherwise, that Keith has ever had in his life.  It helps that it's just the two of them at the table. Being around Hunk doesn't make him feel as frazzled as being with the whole group does sometimes, and the soup is so good, Keith doesn't even care what all is floating around in the broth, or that it's this weird blue/green color.  He unabashedly holds his bowl up for a second helping, which Hunk divvies out with gusto.

"Glad you're feelin' better, man," Hunk says, then looks a bit sheepish, "Sorry for fainting on you, by the way.  I'm uh - I'm not great with blood and it was kinda - kinda everywhere."

He looks a little pale just thinking about it.  Keith hadn't even known Hunk was there at the time, so he can't grudge him for his weak constitution.

"It's okay," Keith says, "Sorry for the scare."

"Nah, you're good." Hunk waves a hand. "When you do crazy stuff it keeps everybody on their toes.  Good to stay in shape. Unless you're me and you pass out or puke when things get hairy." He looks introspective for a moment, lips pushed together, brow knotted. Then he shrugs and lifts a grin at Keith again. "Guess we've all got some stuff to work on."

Keith really wishes it was that easy.  Before he can stop himself, he blurts out, "How can you be so good at that?"

Hunk's eyebrows go up. "At what?"

Keith is staring into his bowl, unsure of what he wants to say, or how to say it.  He unsticks his tongue anyway, "Y'know, at - that."

He gestures uselessly to all of Hunk.

"Mmm kay," Hunk says slowly, " _ Pretty sure _ you're not talking about my food skills, or my rugged good looks, but I'm not catching on to what."

"At…" Keith hesitates, struggling, "At being okay. All the time."

"Oh." Hunk looks kind of stricken. Keith wishes he hadn't said anything.  "Oh man. I, uh. I dunno. That's just what I do, y'know? I freak out, and then it's easier to just move right on to acceptance because things can get pretty crazy out here. I mean, yeah, okay, I can be pretty salty y'know - if I'm right and no one's listening to me, or if something is just  _ a mess _ , but for all that other bigger stuff it's like - I dunno."  He shrugs for emphasis, then thinks about it for a minute. The smile on his face is big and soft when he adds, "My Nana likes to say that life is kinda like the ocean."

He obviously means for Keith to pull some profound meaning from this. So he tries.

"It's… wet?"

".....No.  No no, it's - scary, but beautiful. Y'know, like - stuff happens and sometimes it's awful, but most of the time it all works out for the better and you just gotta go with the flow."

Keith can't think of anything to say to that.  He stares down into his soup, the bowl cupped between his hands, and feels the warmth seeping into his skin.  It's not hot enough to scorch him. It should be comforting after his stint in the cryopod. It  _ should _ be….

"Keith, you okay?"

"I'm fine, I'm just... tired."

-x-

He can't find his knife.

Shiro gave it back to him, but Keith feels a little sick when he looks at it now (for a lot of reasons) so he stowed it under the mattress in his room - and it's gone.  Hunk is first on his list of suspects because he likes to root around in everybody's stuff, but Hunk doesn't take anything. He's just being nosey. Pidge, on the other hand, takes things if they think it's not going to be missed or it's something they need.  Keith's knife is neither of those. He's a little annoyed.

He stops in front of Pidge's workstation, arms folded.

"Where's my knife?"

It's hard to tell if Pidge is too focused on the computer to answer right away, or if they just ignore him.  Either way, no answer is forthcoming. Lance is sitting behind them with his elbow leaned against the desk, his chin in his hand.  They're going over graphs of Blue's sonar together - depth, distance, effected mass, working out data for their next mission. Lance is the one that looks up and asks,

"Did you check your leg?"

Keith looks down at his leg, confused, before he realizes Lance is just being a jerk.  Something hot rises in his chest.

"That's not funny."

"It really is not," Pidge snaps at Lance, who puts his hands in the air and sits back  _ ("Okay, okay.") _ , then at Keith, "And I'm still mad at you."

_ "Mad at me. _ I didn't do anything!"

_ "You almost died!"  _  Pidge throws both hands in the air, a gesture to express just how outrageous this is. "What were you even doing?  We were watching for at least ten minutes and you just kept getting worse and worse. Aren't you the one that's at least supposed to be a  _ little _ proficient in hand to hand combat like Shiro is? The rest of us are mostly long-distance fighters, that's how we stay balanced - "

"What were you even watching me for?"  That heat inside is filling him up. It makes Keith squeeze his hands into fists, makes his voice rise, "If I had wanted an audience, I would have asked!"

"We're not supposed to be on the training deck alone!  For  _ obvious _ reasons!!"

"You of all people should be able to mind your own business, Pidge! Just gimme back my knife!"

"Fine!!"

Pidge slams open a drawer and produces the knife, encased in its sheath.  They slam it down on the table. Keith hesitates, anger sputtering out, giving way to surprise. He hadn't expected it to be that easy and can't help feeling like there's a catch. Pidge is glaring at their computer, though, slamming their fingers against the keys with needless force and doing their best to pretend that Keith isn't even in the room now.  That stings a lot more than they probably mean for it to.

Lance watches Keith pick up his knife and walk away without saying anything, but he nudges Pidge hard in the shoulder before Keith makes it to the door.

Pidge bumps their fist against the desk, "Hang on," and Keith pauses.

"The Blade of Marmora didn't give you a lot of answers," Pidge says, their voice shifting into something softer, more direct, "I just thought I'd see if there was any information I could find by analysing the knife. You know, fingerprints, DNA, that sort of thing."

Keith doesn't want to get his hopes up. He turns around, anyway, his heart thumping hard.

"Did you find anything?"

Pidge sighs. "No."  They nudge their glasses up the bridge of their nose, peck at the keyboard, and spin the computer around.  Keith comes back to see what's on the screen as Pidge elaborates, "Nothing you probably didn't already know. Rare metal, destroyed planet, all that stuff.  And no DNA that didn't match up with somebody we've accounted for, like Shiro and Lance and that one Blade of Marmora guy. Breaking down the material components just fed me the same results."

"Figures," Keith sighs too, stepping back.

He feels bad for losing his temper.  Maybe he wasn't exactly yelling at Pidge... And maybe he understands where they're coming from.  He gets angry when he's scared.

He gets angry when he's everything...

"Sorry I took it without asking." Pidge crosses their arms and looks defiant. "But I'm not sorry for yelling.  You should be yelled at more often."

Lance grins, snapping his fingers.

"Now that's something we can agree on!"

-x-

Keith can't sleep, and he wants to blame the cryopod.  Maybe if his leg hurt he would have a reason to feel so restless.  Maybe if it had left a mark of some kind it would feel like it really happened.  Instead, it doesn't. Instead, it's just his own brain running senselessly in circles, wearing him out without providing any kind of relief.  He keeps thinking about it. He keeps thinking about the pain that isn't there anymore and groping his leg, keeps turning over and yelling his frustration into the pillow.

The event is a little hazy, if he's honest. It comes back in pieces. He wonders why Lance hasn't said anything about it, and thinks maybe he imagined most of it, woozy with blood loss.  How his own hands were freezing cold and Lance's were so warm. The lull of his voice.

Yeah, that was probably, definitely, the blood loss.

Eventually, Keith sits up and takes his knife out again, holding it carefully between his hands.  He glides his thumb over the symbol in the center, the jagged illuminous outline. The metal is smooth and cold, the edges sharp like glass.

A noise outside makes him jump.  He maneuvers the blade away from his fingers, gripping the hilt.  He waits a while, listening, and then gets up to investigate. The sleep lights are on in the hallway, but it's bright enough to see by.  Keith wanders barefooted until he comes to the kitchen, following his instinct more than anything concrete. A bigger light is on here, thrown across the floor of the hallway and the wall across from the door, and he can hear someone rummaging around when he gets closer.

His thinks it might be Lance and jumps forward that last step - only to realize it's Allura's voice that he hears, soft but clear, "Yes, I know this isn't an ideal snack, but you mustn't be so choosey.  You're all becoming quite overindulged."

There's some squeaking in answer, mostly affronted.

"Oh, alright. I suppose one or two to share can't hurt. Now what's in this one?"

Keith hears a container being opened before he steps through the doorway.  Allura is in her nightgown, standing in front of the refrigerator - or what passes for one on an Altean ship - peeling open a container that Hunk put away the day before. Leftovers or something.  Probably the soup. The mice are crowded together on a tray on the counter nearby, holding assorted fruits and snacks. They squeak in surprise and small greetings when they spot Keith.

Allura starts around as if he'd fired off a blaster.

Keith only notices that he was smiling because he feels it drop all the way to the bottom of his stomach at the look on Allura's face.  He can't decide if she's angry or frightened.

Her voice is sharp with both, her hands tight around the food container.

"What are you doing here?"

"I… thought I heard something," Keith manages.

He's surprised his voice comes out at all around the lump in his throat, and Allura talks over him before he even gets it all the way out,

"Obviously you did."

She replaces the container with a snap.

"Allura… should we talk - ?"

"I  _ don't  _ have anything to say to you."

Keith almost wishes she would just say it, so it doesn't have to hang over him like this. He'd rather be crushed by the weight of it than keep holding his breath, waiting on it to fall. Allura closes the refrigerator door, throwing the kitchen into sudden dimness until the sleep lights brighten. She snatches up the tray and the mice, and moves toward the door without so much as looking at him.

Keith automatically draws himself inward, stepping aside. He doesn't want her to think he's blocking the door or stopping her from leaving. He's still holding his knife. Keith sees it, glinting faintly, the symbol glowing purple in the semi dark. He spins the pommel in his hand so the blade is pointed upward, hidden behind his wrist, and moves it behind his back.

The tip pokes into his arm, makes him suck in a breath.

Allura turns her face away from him as she passes through the door.  Keith waits until he loses track of her footsteps fading down the hall before he relaxes and flips the knife in his hand.

He rinses the blood off in the sink.

-x-

"Coran… does it bother you?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate," Coran says, as upbeat as he always is, "But I'll go ahead and preemptively answer: No, it doesn't. Very little does these days."  He shoots Keith a wink, twitches his mustache and touches the side of his nose before turning back to the monitor. "Tolerance with age and all that. What's troubling you, Number 4?"

"I'm Galra."  It's the first time Keith has said it out loud to someone's face. Or just out loud, at least. He can't bring himself to look at Coran. He keeps one hand twisted into the front of his jacket, fingers stumbling over the zipper. "Or… part Galra, I guess."

Coran straightens from poking at the consol and turns to look at Keith. His face is unreadable.

"You want an honest answer?"

Keith's throat tightens.

"Yeah."

Coran shrugs, both shoulders lifting, and says, "It doesn't bother me in the slightest."

Keith let's out a ragged sigh. His whole body deflates with relief, shoulders dropping. He digs his fingers in tighter; feels the fabric strain, the muscles in his forearm tighten under the hidden bandage.

"Why not…?"

His voice is so small and scratched up, Keith wonders how the words come out intelligible. He doesn't notice his vision is tunneling, narrowed down the the space of floor between his feet, swimming, until he feels Coran touch his arm and looks up. He blinks and the tears pooling in his eyes disappear. Coran slides his arm around Keith's shoulders, stepping closer as if it is the most effortless gesture in the universe. He lifts his other hand, index finger in the air.

"For one, I know you personally," he says, "You're a good egg.  A little rambunctious, impulsive, strong-headed, and brooding at times, but overall your heart is in the proper place.  And second of all - " He lifts another finger. " - 10,000 years ago, I had friends all across the cosmos. Before the war began, many of my closest comrades were Galra. And it stands to reason that many of them will be again, after all's said and done."

Inexplicably, Keith feels so much lighter. Like that whole stardust feeling all over again. Calming, solid. They're all connected and made of the same stuff, and they're not looking to eradicate the Galra, but to break Zarkon's tyrannical hold on the universe. Its reaffirming in a way.  Keith looks at Coran for a minute, then looks down again - not out of shame, but in retrospect.

"I guess… I didn't think of that."

"Ah, you're young," Coran says wistfully, giving Keith's shoulders a helpful squeeze, "You're still figuring things out."

Keith hesitates.

"Allura…."

"Also still figuring things out."

It's all Coran offers on the subject.  And, to be fair... Keith had expected that.

It still leaves something loose resting in between his ribs, a taste like copper in his mouth.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original idea for this when i was talking about it w/ my brother was actually a lot funnier, like - keith accidentally stabs himself in the leg and is just like.....'shit this is embarrassing' and he has to leave it there and drag his ass to go get help and then when everybody sees it they're losing their collective shit and keith is just like 'calm down, it's /my knife' 'wHAT Do yoU mEaN It'S YoUR KNIFE!!! KEITH!!'''
> 
> But then I got it started and was like 'what if i wrote angst and lowkey klance instead'?
> 
> So here we are! thank you guys so much for reading, please let me know what you think~


	2. the light staccato

The truth is they aren't prepared for any sort of well-executed ambush.  Popping in and out of wormholes makes them difficult to pin down, but not impossible (Zarkon has proven that on more than one occasion), and being infiltrated in the middle of the night cycle by Beta Traz soldiers looking to reclaim their prisoner is not something they actually have a plan for.  The sense of security that the castle provides has never felt more false than it does right now, when they're all stumbling around in the dark with bare legs and empty hands.

Aside from Shiro, Keith is the only one with a weapon.

It's part of the reason why Shiro tells him to take the others to the bridge to get their bayards while he stays in the barracks to protect Slav. The other reason is implied; again, Shiro is giving him the opportunity to lead.  That responsibility trembles in Keith's chest. He's not built for this. He's not good at it. Shiro wears it like a second skin and it just doesn't fit Keith the same way. It keeps slipping off, tripping him up, and Keith seeks to shed it as soon as he can.

"I'll clear a path," he says, crouched around the corner from a handful of Galra droids that are blocking their way to the elevators.  He looks back at the others. "You guys go on ahead."

Right away, he's met with opposition.

"That is a  _ bad _ idea," Hunk says, wringing his hands, "What if we run into more soldiers?"

"I regret not devoting more of my time to hand to hand combat," Pidge puts in, nervously adjusting their glasses.  Seeing them standing there in their pajamas with enemies literally right around the corner makes Keith painfully aware of just how small Pidge is.  Pidge is more than capable of taking down an opponent twice their size -  _ with _ a weapon,  _ with _ their armour.

Keith grips his knife a little tighter.

"Definitely something we've gotta work on," he says, "But we don't have a lot of options."

Honestly, they're lucky he said anything to them at all instead of just charging off.  If Lance hadn't pushed past him to stick his own nose around the corner, he might've just done that right now instead of wasting time arguing or trying to convince them. It's the only option that they've got. Lance snaps his fingers for Keith's attention, then, and when Keith has crept forward to press against his shoulder, Lance cuts his eyes to him and points.

"See what that nearest guy is holding?"

Keith nods. "A blaster."

"And what am I severely lacking at the moment?"  Lance splays his empty hands.

"Subtlety," Hunk supplies from behind them.

"Your bayard," Keith says, frowning.

Hunk laughs.  Pidge groans. Lance tries again,  _ "Keith." _

It takes him a second to get there, looking back and forth between Lance's open hands and the droid just a few paces down the hall, cradling a blaster.  His face lights up.

"Oh."  He drops a hand on Lance's shoulder, pushing him back down as he moves forward. "On it."

His bare feet don't make any noise against the cold floor, and Keith is on top of the nearest droid before it or the others are even aware of him.  As soon as he lifts his knife, he feels the weight of it shift in his hand. Something is different, subtle, burning through him. Keith adjusts his swing instinctively, slices his blade clean through the droid's arm in a single move and scrapes it's chest plate, sending sparks flying up from the ruined appendage.

It shorts out, collapsing.

Unfortunately, the blaster also clatters to the floor in two neat pieces.

Lance yells reproachfully, "Keith!"

"That was an accident!" Keith snaps without turning.

He's preoccupied by the Galran sword suddenly gleaming in his hand, curving off toward the end, pitch black except for the luminescent streak of purple that checks along the blade - the tingle in his palm and chest that is both foreign and oddly familiar, that leaves him flushed and feeling breathless.  He flips it experimentally. It's heavier than his bayard. He's been trying  _ so hard _ to get it to do that -

A blast fired from another droid jolts Keith back into the present.  The sound attracts his attention, the heat near his ear. He dodges aside and rushes to sweep the droid's legs out from under it.  He thrusts his sword into its side. It releases its weapon with a shudder, and Keith kicks the blaster across the floor into Lance's waiting hands as he comes out from around the corner.  Keith steps out of the way as Lance fires one headshot each at two of the remaining droids. He swings to take out the third himself.

The way to the elevators is clear in a matter of seconds, and Lance is standing beside him.

"Keith, only you would bring a knife of a gun fight and make it look not only effortless but super cool.  I totally hate it." he says, hitting Keith with his elbow. He's still wearing that wide grin, though, his eyes bright, "Seriously, man, what is that?  Is that your knife?"

"You didn't tell us it turned into a sword!" Pidge says accusingly, hurrying past them to hammer the call button for the elevator.  They're openly staring in awe at the sword in Keith's hand.

"I thought you looked at it," Keith says, still kind of in awe himself.

_ "None _ of my analysis revealed any kind of transformative properties! How long have you known that it does that? Does it have an interchangeable form like our bayards? What activates it? Okay, I mean - obviously, it's because you're part Galra, but there's gotta be some other factor because you've been Galra this whole time and - "

"I'm - not really sure, Pidge - "

It disarms Keith somewhat to hear it just blurted out in the middle of a tangent like that when he still doesn't really have the gall to say it himself.  Everybody's been doing that a lot lately, saying it so casually. Like it's unimportant. Like it's normal. Keith… kind of envies that. But then something twists in his stomach - the way Allura tenses any time she hears it, the way she turns her face away from him or ignores him when he speaks - and he wishes that they wouldn't bring it up at all. That weird mixture of relief at being accepted and the feeling that he's doing something wrong just be being in the room keeps swirling in his chest.

Hunk stops him from dwelling too much on it, just as the elevator doors slide open, "Um, guys, I think the commotion drew some attention because I hear more soldiers coming."

They all turn, falling silent - and sure enough the troop of metal feet grows louder.

"I'll stay, you guys go," Keith says.

"Bad idea." Lance is the one that says it this time.

"We can't all get trapped in that elevator."

"Fine, alright." It looks like it pains Lance to agree with him, but he's gripping the blaster in both hands, stepping into the elevator right behind Hunk, and Keith can't help smirking. "Just don't do anything crazy! We'll be right back down."

"I'm not the one who came up with that plan just now."

Hunk presses the close button before Lance can shake off his open-mouthed offense and blurt out something stupid.  He laughs, "See I told you guys Galra!Keith is  _ funny _ ," just as the doors are sliding closed, and the elevator carries them away.  Keith is left standing in the empty hall, smiling softly, feeling kind of warm inside instead of indecisive and sick for once.

He smashes the hilt of his sword against the control panel for the elevator, rendering it useless, and charges down the hall.

-x-

He doesn't remember much in the moments leading up to it.

Everything after that is a haze of blaring alarms, the lights going in and out as the castle shudders, the crash of droids falling at his feet, the burn of adrenaline pushing him to swing harder, move faster.  The whine of blasters and the sheen of blades, the ethereal dark of the blue-lit halls. At some point Coran's voice sounds over the comms, updating him on everyone's status - and Keith feels a rush of relief as he takes out another battle droid, thinning them out.  Everyone made it safely to the bridge. Hunk and Pidge are outside getting rid of the enemy ship.

Lance is coming to back him up, annoyed that he ran off on his own.

Coran guides Keith to the last remaining group of infiltrators, and he is definitely missing his armour and shield right about now. He's bruised his elbow, singed his hair. He might've broken or jammed his finger, but his adrenaline is pumping and he hardly feels it at all.

Thinking of this as an expert level training simulation makes it easier.  The droids aren't any more difficult to put out of commission than the gladiators are, there are more of them.  They're slow, they've got no instincts, and Keith plows through them with relative ease once he falls into a rhythm, once he lets his body carry him through the motions and doesn't give himself too much time to think.

This is what he thrives on.

Something physical, something he can take at face value and push back against. Something he can fight.  He's no good at that other stuff, but he can do  _ this _ .

And then he screws up.

He's gotten used to someone watching his back.

One of the droids sneaks into his blind spot while Keith is twisting his sword free of another one.  He doesn't even realize the blasters have been modified into bayonets until he turns and the blade is right in his face - he has been cutting them in half left and right, how did he not  _ see it, _ how could he not  _ know _ \- and Keith jerks sideways at the last possible second.

Instead of going through his face, the blade catches the side of neck below his jaw.

Keith grits his teeth, and thrusts his sword up through the droid's chest plate.  He plants his foot against it and shoves it away. It falls against another droid, takes it with it to the floor, a pile of metal limbs, twitching and struggling as the life goes out of it.  Keith's back slams into the wall, pushes his breath out, sends pain shooting through his neck and shoulder, pounding in his head. His hand almost pops open from the shock of it, almost drops his sword.

His other hand comes up, groping at his neck.

It's slick with blood but it's not - he can't -

The second droid is getting up, more are filing into the hall.  Keith gasps, sliding along the wall, dodging the shot from a blaster.  He uses the momentum as he pushes off to take another droid down, then another, then another.

It wasn't that deep.

He can still breathe, he can still keep going.

Keith's next blow lacks so much strength that it only glances off the droid's armour. The impact makes his hands numb, his arms tremble. He's so stunned that he doesn't manage to dodge a blow to the head the droid delivers, and Keith falls hard and rolls to his feet, staggers, then gets his footing - or, he tries.  His bare foot slips in something wet. His breath rattles out of him. Keith grips his blade tighter, swings harder, and wrenches it free of the droid's neck, laying into the next one.

It's fine.

He's fine.

As long as he has any strength left at all, then everything's fine.

The hallway tilts, the lights swirling, Galra red and Altean blue bleeding into purple.  Everything in between is black, smudged with color, senseless shapes that meld together. Keith leans his shoulder against the wall.  He tries to swallow down the urgent throbbing in his pulse, the heat in his throat, the heaviness behind his eyes. He tries to count how many enemies are left.

There are just a few more.

He can do this -

Something bright flares across Keith's vision and startles him awake. He'd been sagging on his feet, slipping down the wall.

A droid drops right in front of him, it's helmet smoking.  Two more follow it down - shot in the chest, the shoulder - and Keith looks down at his own chest, his own shoulder, and feels like he's in a daze, like he's outside his body, looking down at it through someone else's eyes. His shirt is sticking to his skin, uncomfortable, tacky, and he grabs a handful of it, peeling it away. He feels himself going sideways and tries to brace himself against the wall, but his hand just slides.

He turns his head toward a voice, "Aw, you saved me so many! Did you just wanna be rescued?" and there's a throb of pain that grabs the breath right out of his lungs.

His chest is tight, vision black at the edges.

Oh.

Lance's face is bright with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead as he jogs across the hall, checking bodies as he passes them to make sure they're incapacitated, bayard ready in his hands in case they're not.  He lifts a grin at Keith, easy, confident, a little smug - and Keith sees the exact moment that expression crumbles, when Lance spots all the blood. The blood that's running down Keith's neck and soaking his shirt, the blood that's matting his dark hair; the blood that's forming a rivulet, sneaking down his arm and pooling in his loose fist.

He doesn't even remember dropping his blade, but he must have.  It's gone.

_ "Keith!" _

Lance's hands are on him, pulling him up. He doesn't even remember falling. Lance props Keith's back against the wall, drops into a crouch between his knees and holds Keith's head in both his hands, fingers touching his neck, shaking along his jaw, his hairline.

_ "No no no no no. Keith. Keith!" _

His palm pressing down on the wound makes Keith's whole body curl in pain. He sucks in a breath between his teeth. He latches onto Lance's wrists, and his broken finger throbs, and he digs his feet into the floor, trying to squirm away.

Lance doesn't let him go. He keeps putting pressure on it, and Keith's chest is heaving.

_ It hurts. _

"I know - I know, sorry - " Lance's voice shakes at first, but it grows steadier.  He's pressed so close, Keith can feel Lance's breath fan across his face. Lance swallows hard, licks his lips and shifts a little, his knees resting over Keith's thighs. "Easy. I got you, okay, it's gonna be fine.  Just breathe -  _ Keith _ \- just take a deep breath, buddy, everything's gonna be fine."

Keith shakily takes a deep breath.

Lance says to, and he does it instinctively, because Lance is right. Lance is always right.  Why does he always know what to do? Why does he always know what to say? Keith feels any strength he had left going out as he exhales, like someone opened the drain at the bottom of the tub.  His skin is burning under Lance's palm, his pulse weaking. His fingers are numb, trembling, caught in the sleeves of Lance's shirt.

Lance is moving, the pressure on his neck shifting, and it's too much.

Keith wants to hold on.

Why can't he ever hold onto anything?

-x-

Something kicks him in the chest.  Something punches the air back into his lungs so hard that Keith sucks in a breath that tears his throat, his back arching, hands jumping to his chest.  Something's in the way, fumbling under his shirt, and Keith's body  _ aches _ . His pulse beats hard. He feels it in his palms and toes like he's about to bust out of his skin; feels it pounding in his head, going out his neck.

He thinks he hears voices.

_ "Pull it off now, quickly! Quickly!  You don't want to give him another shock - " _

_ "I'm pulling, I'm pulling! Would you relax, Coran, jeez!  What kinda messed up defibrillator is this - " _

But it all melts together and he can't…. he can't.

-x-

There are definitely voices this time.

Loud voices.

Keith thinks he's either not really awake or his ears might be ringing, because he recognizes that the voices are nearby, but he can't make out what they're saying. They sound muted, distant, creeping into his awareness through a dense fog.

Allura sounds angry, only the end of her sentence registering, " -is  _ cannot _ happen again."

Somehow, Lance sounds worse.  His voice is sharp with anger, cold in a way Keith has never heard before, "Are you saying that because you actually care that Keith  _ literally died _ just now or because the castle was cracked open like a can of beans?"

"I can't believe you would even insinuate something like that!" Allura is breathless. Hurt?

"I can't believe you're going to stand there and act like you don't know what I'm talking about!"

"He's - "

_ "He's  _ **_Keith,_ ** _ Allura!!" _

"Lance." Shiro's voice slices through the tension, "Now is really not the time."

"Now is the  _ perfect time, _ actually - "

_ "Lance." _

Something slams down, rattles, breaks.  The light staccato of quick footsteps fading away has Keith's head spinning, his heart rate spiking with undecided nerves. The sound follows him in a tight turn, taunting him. A weight shifts against his side, the brush of fabric right in his ear; then Lance sighs, frustrated, and Keith's hair tickles his face.

He blinks.

"....Look, I love Allura, but I am  _ so sick  _ of her treating him like this."

Slowly, Lance comes into focus above him.  His hands are cupped around Keith's face and pressing down on the right side of his neck; the side that's oddly cool now that he notices, his skin tingling.  His hand and his head are both throbbing dully, but it doesn't really hurt. Everything just feels sort of fuzzy. Keith knows he's not moving but it feels a lot like he's turning over in circles. The sensation is making him sick, something hot rising in his throat.

He doesn't know where Shiro is, but he must be in the room.  Keith tries to turn his head, but he doesn't think he manages it because he's still looking up at Lance when Shiro answers.

"I know this has been difficult for the past few weeks, but just - try to understand where she's coming from, Lance. She has more reasons than any of us to dislike the Galra.  She just needs some time to sort this out for herself. It's a lot to process."

"Name  _ one _ reason she has to dislike Keith  _ other _ than the fact that he's Galra."  Lance's whole body is tense, his hand bearing down over the side of Keith's neck, and it grounds Keith somewhat.  _ "Nothing _ about him has changed, he's just as stupid and reckless as ever - "

  
"Lance - "

"You know how many times as a kid I had to watch someone treat my parents like this?  I'm  _ not _ gonna watch someone do that to Keith -  _ not even Allura - " _

"Lance, I know - "

_ "He doesn't deserve it - " _

_"Lance,_ ** _I know!"_**  The volume of Shiro's voice actually makes Lance stop. It makes Keith's heart shudder and his hand twitches against Lance's knee.  Shiro takes a deep breath, pushes out a sigh, and his voice is as calm as ever once he starts again, taking on a pleading tone, "I know.  And I'm sorry. But you can't - _force_ people to come to terms with their prejudices.  It's a personal battle."

Lance presses his mouth into a thin line, jaw bone popping in his cheek.

Keith really hones in on that for some reason - the slope of Lance's neck, that crease between his sharp eyebrows, the slight upturn at the tip of his nose.

Keith doesn't understand what's happening. Maybe if he gets up, maybe if he says something, things will make more sense. Keith pulls in a breath that's slightly deeper than the others were - and pain hooks itself into his ribs and into his throat. Keith groans, tensing up. His legs curl, bumping against Lance, who's suddenly looking at him with wide blue eyes, crowding in closer, his hands adjusting.

"Hey. You alive, mullet head?"

It's a completely different voice than before, teasing and soft.

Keith regrets moving even an inch. His whole body is awake now, everything feels hot and hazy and heavy and sore and  _ wrong _ .  Unconsciousness is right on the edge of the pain, trying to drag him back down, and Keith squirms, fighting it off.  He twists his fingers into Lance's shirt, unaware that he even reached for him. He's panicking, babbling,  _ "I dunno," _ and  _ "what happened," _ and  _ "hurts…" _ and he can't get his breath. Lance is pinning him down with his weight, hands tightening around Keith's face to keep him from turning his head.

The wound in his neck throbs.

"Whoa, hey, take it easy!" He can feel Lance's voice humming in between them. He can feel it in his chest, in his stomach, and he stops struggling so much, opens his eyes to look at Lance when he calmly says his name, "Keith. Breathe. Look at me. Just relax and breath, okay? You listening to me?"

"Yeah," Keith gasps. He takes half an unsteady breath, then another.

"I got you, okay?"

"Okay…"

"Everyone's fine, you're gonna be fine."

"O-okay..."

Shiro swims into Keith's line of sight. He looks relieved, but also really worried, and he reaches down to smooth Keith's sweaty hair away from his face. His fingers brush across a tender spot near Keith's forehead, and Keith squeezes his eyes closed, fingers digging into Lance when he can't flinch away. Shiro rests his hand on top of Keith's head, instead, and gives Keith that soft reassuring smile that normally makes him feel better, but somehow doesn't work this time.

"Keith, try not to move around too much, alright?" Shiro says softly, "It's not bad, but we don't want to make it any worse.  Lance is gonna stay right here with you while I go and get Coran." Shiro pulls back, puts his hand on Lance's shoulder before he steps away and adds, "I'm gonna see how they're coming along with the repairs. Keep that bandage on his neck, alright? The pain medicine should be working, but he really needs to be in a pod."

Maybe he doesn't mean for Keith to hear that part.

It scares him.

And Shiro is gone before Keith's brain can get his tongue to work, to protest. He wants Shiro to stay. He really doesn't want to cry in front of Lance, but his nerves feel wobbly all of a sudden and he thinks that he might. Lance is saying something, but Keith doesn't catch the words - just the sound of them, just the vibration. Lance's finger taps the side of his face and brings him back around.

"Keith. You still with me, buddy?"

"Think so…"

"Y'know, if you're going to have this stupid mullet you'd think it would at least be able to provide some padding for that thick skull of yours." Lance lifts the hand that is not pressing down against the injured side of Keith's neck and taps Keith's forehead, avoiding the tender spot. "You wanna tell me your name? Uh, how old you are and what Lion you fly? I wanna make sure you're not concussed or anything. You've got a pretty big knot over here, incase you were wondering why your head hurts."

He tucks his hand back around Keith's head.  The tips of his fingers slide into Keith's hair and he brushes his thumb along the line of Keith's jaw, a small, restless movement; Lance shifts his weight and looks away for a second, and then just keeps talking,

"Also we may have had to, uh, jump start your heart because you kinda went into shock or whatever. In case you're wondering why your… everything… hurts.  But it's all good! We got you back, and we gave you a transfusion - you're welcome, by the way - and we're just waiting for Slav and Coran and Pidge to get the power back on. Everything's good. Everyone's fine."

Keith isn't sure he's able to process all of that, but hearing Lance's voice makes his heart stop throbbing like it wants to come out of his chest, and he feels himself relaxing despite the threads of pain and anxiety still tripping through his veins. He loosens his death grip on Lance's shirt, sees a tiny smile quirk up Lance's lips.

"Did you…." Keith's voice rakes against his throat, barely there at all. He has to stop and try again, "Did you ask… me something?"

"Keith, that is  _ not _ reassuring me that your brain isn't swollen or something."

"You… you talk…. a lot…"

"Of course I talk a lot! Aside from sharp shooting it's my best skill!"

Lance repeats his questions, though, one at a time, and doesn't rush Keith to answer.

Maybe he is concussed.

Thinking feels like wading through a bog.  His head hurts, but now that he's lying mostly still, with Lance's weight on his chest, with their breathing slowly synced, it's sort of pulling him out of his panic and clearing his head. It occurs to him that Lance wouldn't be so relaxed if they were still in trouble, or if enemies were nearby - if everyone wasn't safe. Shiro wouldn't have left them, either. So Keith knows that Lance wasn't lying and that everything's okay, and that helps calm him down, too.

That sharp pain in his neck is no longer spiking through his shoulder and ribs, up the curve of his skull. Except for the pressure Lance is applying, it feels kind of numb, actually.

Keith tries to answer Lance's questions.

"Keith.  Seven….teen.  Eighteen. And… Red."

"Wow," Lance says, "I am truly amazed, that was worse than I was expecting. Look, I know you were all like, being a brooding hermit, living alone in the desert before - but you gotta know how old you are, man. That's just sad!"

"I think I had a... a birthday…. recently.  I forgot."

Lance's eyes are so  _ blue  _ up close. "What, seriously?"

"Yeah."

"Like  _ recently _ recently?"

"I guess. It's no big deal. I'm … kinda used to not celebrating."

Keith's throat is dry and it's hard to swallow.  He can't read the look on Lance's face. He looks…. mad?  His eyebrows are pinched together and he's frowning, and he's quiet all of a sudden.

That's… that's not good.

Keith thinks he must have said something wrong, but he's too dazed and lethargic to figure out what it was. He's never been great at… that.  He's never been great at communicating, at aligning what he's feeling with what he wants to say, at parsing out what he even feels in time to say something at all. It's hard for him to do that stuff.

It's not hard for Lance.

He is a steady stream of consciousness, an open book. So when Keith doesn't know how to react in a situation, Lance is usually a safe bet. Lance is social. He likes people, he knows how to interact with them, and Keith mirrors his mood a lot without really thinking about it. When he's annoyed and wants to fight for no reason, when he's relaxed and making jokes.

It's why when Lance drops something, Keith doesn't ever pick it up.

Like the Voltron cheer.

Like their bonding moment.

And now the being Galra thing, and the almost bled to death because he's an idiot and he stabbed himself thing, because those two things are irrevocably tied together in Keith's mind because Lance hasn't said anything about them, and yet nothing has changed.

Lance still orbits him like a small moon, and Keith still feels that pull.

He wonders if they're going to talk about this, or if Lance is just going to ignore it like he ignores everything else Keith thinks is significant. And that's another thing Keith doesn't know how to feel about, another weight that sinks down between his ribs, another thing that chokes his throat.

So he wants to think that everything's fine.

But maybe it isn't.

Maybe he's reading this wrong. Maybe he got the wrong message.  Maybe he's screwing everything up and he doesn't even realize it.

"Should I… apologize?"

Lance blinks, looks surprised. "Huh?"

"To… Allura…."  It hurts to talk. Keith's hands shake, fingers digging loosely at Lance's clothes again. He's restless, and he wants to move, but he can't. His eyes sting and he squeezes them closed. "Or…"

The Galra have taken so much from everyone. Everyone on his team. Everyone in the galaxy.

What if he's like that, too?

Why is he thinking about this now?

"Keith.  _ No." _

Lance really does look angry now.  He looks  _ really _ angry, shifting up onto his knees. The partially dried blood makes their shirts stick together, but there is a gust of cold air that pushes between them. Keith misses the warmth of Lance's body as soon as it's gone, as soon as Lance is off of him, and his throat gets tight, his fingers gripping harder. But Lance is still kneeling over him, still holding Keith's head between his hands more fiercely and gently than ever.

He looks directly into Keith's eyes so there's no mistaking what he says.

"You haven't done anything wrong. Being Galra is part of who you are and you don't have to apologize for that. Not for being who you are. Not ever. The people who love you will accept you, Keith, and the people that don't are the ones missing out. You understand me?"

Lance's fingers are buried in Keith's hair, his face close and determined, his eyes full of something that Keith doesn't have a name for, that makes static bloom in his chest. Keith doesn't realize that he's been holding his breath until a weak laugh bursts out of him before he can stop it. It wrecks his throat, makes him ache, and Lance looks surprised, then a little indignant.

"Seriously? You're laughing at me? I'm giving you a real heart to heart here, Mr. Cranky Pants."

Lance grins, though, when Keith just keeps shaking with laughter, weak and raspy - when he can't make himself stop, even though hurts. Lance is still right here, wiping the tear tracks off Keith's face with his free hand, letting Keith hold onto him, letting him laugh and then cry and then laugh some more until he eventually passes out from the pain.

Keith hasn't had that in a long time.

This raw acceptance, this surety that he's fine just the way he is.

It's terrifying, in it's own way.

Maybe the dark emptiness of space, the huge upheaval from their lives on Earth, never bothered him as much as it bothers the others because it reminds him of the desert nights.  Everything there was still and cold and quiet. The stars were over-bright. Space is like that, only weirder, and he has something different here that he lost back on Earth. Something more than just a mysterious knife, and no answers, and no one around to fill the void that he can't fill up himself.

Lance keeps talking until his voice is the last thing Keith hears,  _ "You must be delirious, you don't usually think I'm this funny. Keith? Are you listening to me? _

_ Keith." _

 

 


	3. addendum

The training deck rings with the clash of metal.

Keith tunes out the sound of it.  Tunes out the hard rush of his breath and the beat of his pulse, the reverberation in his hands and the flush of his skin, the sweat dampening his hair - and instead focuses on where he's putting his feet, where he's striking his next blow.  This new program is more difficult than the type he's used to running, but the training level is set low enough that he can put more effort into his technique and less on blindly taking down combatants one after another.

He doesn't expect to be using two swords often.

The practice definitely won't hurt.

Keith works his way steadily up to level three, then activates the fourth without pause.  He feels better than he has in days. That nervous vibration under his skin is far from gone, but it feels sort of settled.  It flares up every now and then, at mostly small things. At a harsh inhale from Allura, at each casual "Galra Keith" joke from his friends, at the lingering touch of Lance's hand. But mostly he's able to chalk his nervous energy up to the fact that they're just days away from putting their plans against Zarkon into action.  He's going to do whatever he can to make things right. He's going to do whatever he can to finally end this.

Movement at the side of his vision makes Keith turn his head.

He parries a blow from the gladiator with his Galra blade, throws it back to give himself a second to breathe, and looks again. Lance is walking along the perimeter of the room, shoulders loose, hands tucked into his pockets, flashing Keith a lopsided smile when he makes eye contact, though it's fleeting.  Keith feels a flush of warmth go up his neck, and then the gladiator is back, and he's dodging a blow, striking out with his bayard.

As long as Lance stays out of the arena, the gladiators won't engage him.  It leaves Keith free to concentrate on the fight.

Only he can't. 

It's not like he's been actively avoiding Lance. He's just been… trying to not be alone in the same room with him. He's kind of embarrassed. Kind of annoyed.

Keith doesn't remember what all he said the other day, what might have slipped out of his mouth when he was barely conscious. Thinking back on what he does remember - the press of Lance's body, the steady warmth of his hands, the low comforting tone of his voice - only makes things worse.  That type of situation is a little more…. intimate... than Keith is used to.

He's not like that with people. Physically, emotionally.

He's barely like that with Shiro, and they've known each other for years.

So to have been vulnerable like that with Lance…

It makes his stomach flip awkwardly.

Keith is honestly expecting Lance to never bring it up again.  And it's - fine. It's whatever. They've already done this once before, he guesses that it's just going to be a thing that they do.

Keith tells himself that he's fine with that.  He's fine with letting it go. But his body doesn't get the memo.  He's still on pins and needles about it, letting it bleed over into his training so that his hands start to tremble and his movements becomes less fluid.  He slips once. He barely manages to spin the electrified staff away from his shoulder to avoid a shock. Lance is sitting against the wall with his arms around his knees, watching Keith openly, whistling every now and then in surprise or appreciation, or just to be annoying, and it's distracting.

Keith incapacitates the last gladiator by rolling out of the way of its staff and cutting it down at the knees with his bayard. It drops, blinking, vanishing into the floor. The simulator bongs softly,  _ "Training sequence complete." _ and Keith sits back on the floor right where he is, catching his breath.

He puts his bayard and blade aside. He lifts his wrist, swiping a gloved hand across his forehead before the sweat drops into his eyes.

Seeing that Keith is more or less finished for the time being, Lance rocks to his feet and walks over.  Keith doesn't realize he's carrying anything until Lance drops the packet of juice in his lap, and Keith jumps, picking it up from between his knees.  He looks at Lance questioningly, but Lance isn't looking at him, scanning the empty floor of the training deck. He sits beside Keith with his long legs spread out across the floor, propping back on his hands.

He tips one of his feet sideways and lightly bumps it against Keith's.  And he's got this bright, eager look on his face when he does look up.

"This is a lot better."

Keith doesn't understand.  "It is?"

"Oh, definitely," Lance says, looking away.

He's still grinning, but looks like he's trying really hard not to.  His mouth keeps twitching, lips pressing together, and Keith pokes the straw down into his packet to distract himself from wondering why.  He drops it in frustration after only taking a couple of sips and looks back at Lance, blurts out, "What is? This is better than what?"

Obviously, it's a trap.

Only Keith realizes that  _ after _ Lance has turned to face him again, that grin spreading wider, uninhibited. He nudges Keith with his elbow, "Better than having to rush your unconscious body to the infirmary before you bleed out all over the floor."

Keith feels all that unnecessary tension he's carrying sink out of his body all at once. Of course Lance only wants to use it as ammunition, as something to stab at Keith with.  Keith groans and flops onto his back, throwing the arm he's holding his juice packet in across his face.

_ "Lance." _

Lance goes on, raising his hands in a shrug, crooking his knee for balance, "Alright, I was a little scared there for a minute. Don't know who cleared you for being allowed to carry  _ two _ sharp objects at the same time, but I've got to have a serious talk with them.  I thought we all agreed you weren't even getting passed a butter knife at the table anymore."

"Lance," Keith huffs around his arm, "We don't ever use anything sharper than a spork."

"I'm just saying, giving you  _ two _ pointy weapons and setting you loose?  And you didn't tell anyone where you were gonna be  _ again _ , like it's hard to guess, though, you're totally a creature of habit. It just sounds like a recipe for disaster."

"What, were you worried about me?"

It kind of pops out without him meaning to, and Keith tugs up the corner of his mouth the way Lance does when he looks sideways at him. With Lance babbling, he can't really be mad. At least they're talking. Kind of. His heart kicks under his ribs.

Lance doesn't miss a beat.  He presses both hands against his chest, fingers splayed over his collarbone as he rocks forward and levels Keith with an unimpressed look, "I am totally worried."  He says it like he cannot stress this enough. "Because if I give anymore blood to you, I'm pretty sure you're going to be more McClain than Galra."

"That sounds… terrifying.  Also, I'm pretty sure it doesn't work like that."

"Are you a scientist?"

_ "It doesn't work like that, Lance," _ Pidge's voice pops over the loudspeaker, making them both jump.   Lance actually squeals, jolting like he took a hit from the electric field.  Keith sits up and spins around to face the observation deck.  _ "Also, Hunk says to tell you guys the prototypes are finished, if you'd like to join us for the taste test." _

"Pidge, do you  _ mind?" _ Lance whines loudly, annoyed, turning to pout at the windows.

_ "Oh, like you're the only one worried about him knifing himself on accident again," _ Pidge says, and Keith can hear the snark in their voice,  _ "Honestly, Lance, can you be more transparent? Come on, I'll meet you guys down there." _

There's a muffled little thump as the speaker cuts off.  Keith sits there a moment longer, then looks at Lance, who's rubbing his palms over his face and groaning softly.

"What's Pidge talking about?" Keith asks warily.

Lance drops his hands and holds them aloft like he's offering something - something other than a sheepish smile, and cheeks that are tinted slightly pink, and bright blue eyes that don't quite meet Keith's gaze anymore - and he says, "Alright, full disclosure? I may or may not have told Hunk and Pidge about your birthday situation, so the three of us decided to do something nice for you."

Keith feels his entire body simultaneously warm up and freeze.

"You  _ what?" _

Lance rubs his chin with one finger, looking at anything but Keith at this point.

"Well, that stuff you said when you were - that stuff about being used to not celebrating your birthday.  Like it wasn't important. I dunno," Lance's voice drops a little lower, indecisive, or... "That just really bugged me, man.  I asked Shiro to confirm and he said yeah you'd definitely probably had a birthday since we came to space, and you can't - you can't  _ not _ celebrate your birthday with your family, Keith, it's against  _ all the rules _ and as someone who is the King of Birthdays I refuse to let this slide."

"I don't - I didn't want - " Keith stammers, embarrassed.

"Keith, relax, it's literally just milkshakes and we were gonna do it anyway it's just, y'know, now we have an excuse in case anyone asks," Lance laughs nervously, turning to him fully, now, and Keith is the one that drops his gaze, scrunching the juice pouch he's still holding between his hands.  Lance goes on, faltering a little, "And I mean…. we wanted to. We're glad you're here with us."

_ Still. _

_ We're glad you're here with us,  _ **_still._ **

Lance doesn't say it, but it punches Keith in the gut.

The fact that, just a few days ago, Keith's life was pooling out of him, coloring this same floor bright red, and today they're sitting in almost that exact spot like nothing even happened.  It's a little messed up. It's hard for Keith to wrap his head around. But he thinks, suddenly grasping at the pieces, that maybe it's just easier for Lance to make jokes about it than to actually deal with it.

Whatever Keith is doing is definitely not working.

It just keeps him up at night, rubbing his leg, touching his neck, getting up out of bed to walk the room because he needs to be sure that he  _ can. _ That he's  _ here.  _ That he's  _ real. _

Keith touches his neck now without thinking about it, eyes trained on the floor without seeing it. And then Lance closes his hand over the spot, over Keith's hand, and he squeezes. The weight of it is warm and familiar, his longer fingers and calloused palm, and Keith sucks in a breath. Lance's hand slides to his shoulder, though, and he uses it to purposefully, clumsily leverage himself up.  He fists a hand in the collar of Keith's shirt, grinning as he pulls him up, too, when Keith stumbles before he gets his feet underneath him.

"Now, come on!" Lances urges, voice bright, reeling Keith in and strengthening his resolve to say  _ something, _ even if he has to endure being teased about it. "You're all sweaty and gross, but lucky for you, we don't mind - "

"Lance."

Keith stops abruptly because Lance's hand falls away. His voice and his feet both stop, and Lance walks ahead a couple of paces before he notices and turns. He's still smiling expectantly, but there's a slight crease between his eyebrows. Keith wills his heart to slow down just for one second so he can say it and get this over with.

Things are easier with Lance.

Complicated, crazy, and annoying sometimes - but still easy.

Maybe things will stay that way.

(Maybe it's fine if Allura doesn't want anything to do with him anymore… right now… because at least Keith has this, whatever it is.)

"Uh…" Keith says, winces, "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Lance says automatically, then backtracks, "For what, exactly?"

"For, um."  Keith realizes he's touching his neck again. He drops his hand, stops himself from crossing his arms and flexes his fists, instead, loosely at his sides.  He picks his gaze up from the floor at his feet and looks at Lance, sees the slight look of attention shift in his eyes, "For what you said. The other day.  I just - I guess I really needed to hear it. So. Thanks."

Lance's face looks conspicuously red.

His mouth does that thing where it almost pulls up into a wide smile, but he chews it back down to something more somber, cutting his blue eyes to the side, taking a deep breath. He clasps his own hands together, twists his fingers. He seems to have it under control when he looks back at Keith a moment later, because his smile is easier, his shoulders jumping up as he tilts his head.

"R-right. That's what I'm here for." Lance finger-guns at him.  Actually finger guns. And Keith is exasperated, and mortified, and yet he's still smiling - he's  _ smiling _ . When did he do that? - right up until Lance blithely adds, "Although, next time you want me to cradle you in my arms, you can just ask, Keith.  You don't have to be so dramatic."

Keith lets the smile drop off his face right away, kind of enjoys the way Lance falters, panicked.

"I take it back," Keith says. He bends to pick up his weapons, sheathes them both, and walks resolutely toward the door. "I don't remember that happening."

Lance gallops after him, harried.

"Aw, c'mon, Keith, don't be like that - "

"Nope.  What are you talking about?  I don't have any idea."

_ "Keeeitth." _

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh BOY October and Voltron has been super great to me! I can't even remember the last time I was not only invested enough to write something but MOTIVATED ENOUGH TO FINISH THINGS. I'm hyped about it. Please let me know what you guys think, what you loved, what you hated, etc etc, and what you might want to see from me in the future! Thanks so much for reading, it feels good to be around~
> 
> [my tumblr](http://bobtheacorn.tumblr.com) hmu!! ♡


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